


Chains

by dismalzelenka



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Accidental meeting, Drunk Cunillingus, Drunk Hawke, F/M, Mind the warnings, More tags to be added, dark!AU, welcome to my garbage barge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka
Summary: The first two times they crossed paths, they remained strangers; the third time, they collided.Templar and apostate, beggar and  Champion, Raleigh Samson and Allison Hawke truly are forces destined for opposition—or so the Kirkwall nobility would have records believe.History forgets that, in the midst of rebellion and chaos, two broken people once found solace together in a world gone mad.





	Chains

**Author's Note:**

> cw for mild dubcon, she initiates and enthusiastically consents but is also pretty drunk.

The first time they crossed paths, she kept walking, barely sparing a glance at the ragged beggar on a street corner barely a block over from where the fisheries dumped their refuse back into the ocean. She'd been in a hurry, it seemed, fingers dancing in agitation across the hilt of a dagger tucked into her belt. It was a pathetic, rusted thing, dented and scratched, metal corroding on a hilt pocked and scarred from Maker only knew what. 

There was a time in his life when he would have worried about her, with her rusty dagger shoved precariously into a belt cinched too tightly around a waist that seemed positively skeletal in comparison to the strapping young man walking next to her. 

“Rat bastard,” he muttered under his breath. A man should treat his woman with more respect. 

She kept walking, gesturing wildly at the man beside her, an expression of pure frustration marring her features. Features, he noted, were actually quite lovely, with her shortly cropped, windswept black hair, steely blue eyes hidden behind long, delicate lashes, lips painted a deep crimson that matched her—bloody void, was that  _ kaddis _ swiped across her nose _? _ Ferelden, then, probably with one of those stinking, slobbering, bear-sized dogs back at home. A refugee from the Blight, no doubt. 

Explained the state of her dagger.

But of course he didn't actually  _ care.  _ Raleigh Samson was a man with far more pressing concerns—namely  _ survival— _ and the fact that a passing stranger caught his surprisingly lucid eyes probably just meant he was about to feel the clenching ache of withdrawal soon. 

He certainly wasn't thinking of the way her tunic hid an arse attached to the loveliest pair of legs he'd ever seen. She could kill a man with those legs, he mused. 

No, he didn’t care in the slightest. 

The second time they crossed paths, she almost tripped over him in the gutter as a routine spring rainstorm battered Kirkwall and flooded the streets with a thin layer of grimy sludge. 

“The fuck?” she hissed as she caught herself on a stone support beam. “Sober up and go home, asshole. You'll drown yourself out here.” 

He didn't have the strength to tell her sobriety  _ was  _ his problem, that he hadn't eaten in three days and the crippling lack of lyrium in his system had left him barely coherent and lying in his own sick, that the rain was a welcome blessing washing the sour reminder of his failures off of his battered body. 

He woke up shivering on a lumpy dockside inn mattress, a pitcher of water and a hastily scrawled note on the nightstand. 

_ You're welcome. -A.H.  _

The third time they crossed paths, he found her, slumped against the wall outside of a seedy Lowtown pub, bottle in hand, slurring profanities at anyone who wandered by. 

“The fuck are you looking at?” she yelled at a group of grimy young men trudging to their homes. 

“Copper for that cunt? Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be out here alone,” one of them jeered. 

She stumbled forward, brandishing the bottle like a sword. “Try it,” she hissed.”I’ll slice off your prick and wear it ‘round my neck as a trophy.”

The men laughed. “Bet she's a right fire in bed, temper like that. What's life without a little risk, eh boys?” 

Samson had nothing. No weapon, no armor, no shield, and yet he sprang from the shadows before he realized what he was doing. 

He quickly found he needn't have bothered. 

She leapt to her feet, bottle in hand, and with one wobbly step forward, the bottle exploded in a shower of sparks, shrapnel, and flame. The blighter in front got the brunt of it, shirt alight like a funeral pyre as he dropped to the ground shrieking. Another howled and grasped at his eyes, blinded by shards of glass. The third scrambled back, but before he could call for help, she'd thrown the bottleneck and embedded it neatly in his neck. 

The fourth man scrambled back, eyes wide in terror, cheeks and arms bleeding from tiny, shallow cuts. 

“You going to call the templars then?” she taunted.  “Had your life threatened by a mad, scary apostate that turned out to be a sad, drunk bitch with a whiskey bottle? Look at you, so ready to run. And you've gone and pissed yourself. Laughable  way to die, really. Imagine what they'll think of you when they find your corpse.”

“Serrah, please,” he whimpered.”I ain't telling nobody nothing, just let me go.”

“Oh, you poor, sweet thing,” she crooned, crouching down to meet his eyes. “Of course you won't.” 

He'd barely blinked when she whipped a dagger from her boot and yanked it across his throat. 

Her eyes widened at the sight of him, the scowl intensifying on her face as she stood up. “You want a go, too? Come to the gutters for your pound of flesh? Fuck you.” She spat at him and scuffed her boot against the cobblestones. 

“I happen to live in these gutters,” he drawled.”What  _ are  _ you doing out here alone?” 

“None of your damn business,” she snarled. She tried to lunge at him, fist at the ready, but tripped over a loose stone and stumbled into his arms instead. 

“Alright,” he grunted, hauling her to her feet. “Where d’you plan on sleeping tonight, hmm? Let's get you there before you wave your magic fingers at the wrong person. Definitely won't find any liquor in the Gallows.”

She hiccuped and giggled, a strange sound from someone who had, only moments earlier, been filled with so much rage. “That wouldn't be very fun, would it?” she slurred, sagging slightly against his chest. “Fuck, you're warm. Think I'll sleep where you're sleeping.” 

He sighed and lifted her into his arms. She weighed so little, and he caught himself wondering a great many things he couldn't afford to contemplate. She chose that moment, of course, to wrap her arms around his neck and snuggle into him. 

_ Bloody Void. _

She smelled of liquor, of violence, of smoke and blood; but beneath that, a hint of something citrusy and floral. A drop of sweetness in a cloud of death and desperation. 

He'd never really been one for poetry. Maddox would have been proud. 

His heart clenched at the thought of Maddox, and he found himself gripping the plastered woman in his arms a little bit tighter. She whispered something unintelligible into his neck, and his pulse quickened at the feel of her breath tickling his jaw.

Fuck. How long had it been since he'd been with a woman? His cock stirred in his trousers, and he scowled, hefting her a little higher. Time to be a fucking gentleman, he groused internally. 

“You got a home? Family? Those leathers you got on ain't cheap.” 

“Fuck family,” she announced loudly, gesturing wildly with the one arm not clinging to his neck. 

_ How helpful.  _

“Stay right here,” he growled, setting her down on the ground where she flopped back and sprawled out. Shaking his head, he rifled through the corpses’ pockets for coin, forcing his thoughts away from how much lyrium this paltry amount could buy. He’d half a mind to leave her right there, but—no, he decided with a grimace. She’d helped him once; this time, at least, he was lucid enough to do the right thing. Scowling, he shoved the purses into his pockets and turned around to pick her back up. 

The void-damned woman had begun to snore. 

“Maker, why me,” he grumbled, leaning over to scoop her back into his arms. She mumbled something incoherent and snuggled back against his chest. “Alright, you. Let's go.”

The inn where she'd left him that one rainy day was mostly empty when he stumbled through the door. “Need a room,” he grunted. “Drank herself half to death, this one.”

The innkeeper, a chubby middle aged woman with a pinched face and an ample bosom she held on display beneath a scandalously low cut dress, bustled around with a key in her hand. “You two together or summat?” she asked as he followed her upstairs. 

“No—” he began.

“Yes!” the woman in his arms interrupted suddenly, hand waving animatedly. “Tell him to fuck me,” she slurred. “It's been a shit end to a shit day, and I would  _ really  _ appreciate—”

Samson coughed uncomfortably as she trailed off, words forgotten. “Swear I found her like this,” he muttered. 

The innkeeper just handed him the key and walked away chuckling. 

“Alright,” he grunted, shifting her weight to open the door. 

She clutched her fist into his shirt burrowed deeper into his arms. 

Fucking Maker. 

He took three steps to the straw stuffed double bed and deposited her unceremoniously onto the mattress. “Down you go, then.” 

She tightened her grip on his collar instead and yanked him down with her, her lips colliding into his. She smelled like the worst part of a brew house and exuded enough vapor to be a damn fire hazard, but touch starved as he was, all of that ceased to matter when their lips met, her slender fingers winding into his hair, those long, lean legs wrapping about his waist. Maker, if she were stagnant water, he was a man dying of thirst, and if he had any need in the world at that moment it was to bury his face between those magnificent legs and worship her cunt with all he had. 

Her trousers were halfway to her ankles in seconds. He looped his arms around her thighs and tasted her, savoring the way she already dripped with her nectar. His senses filled with the heady scent of her, of sweat and earthy musk that reminded him of garden soil damp with dew in the early hours of dawn. She whimpered when he laved his tongue up and down her slit, all but keened when he applied pressure and sucked, ever so gently, on the head of her pearl. 

Had he ever heard a sound so beautiful? He realized he didn't know. 

“Please,” she whispered, breathy and trembling as her fingers gripped and clawed at the sheets. “Maker, fuck, please don't stop—”

He buried his face between her legs, lapping, sucking, teasing, coaxing more of those wonderful sighs and moans from her lips, until she shuddered against him with a wail, hips stuttering with the waves of her release. 

With a lopsided grin, he raised his head and eyed her. “Gonna tell me your name now?” 

“Only if you cuddle with me,” she mumbled sleepily. 

“Of all the—” he groaned. 

“Tha’s the deal,” she mumbled, waving one hand at nothing in particular as she rolled over and curled around her pillow like a cat. “Keep me company. It’s cold.”

He snorted. “You sure are demanding for a drunk girl I picked up off the gutter.” 

“Th’deal,” she slurred into the pillow. “No cuddle, no name.” 

Surely, he didn’t care enough about that. Not that much. He’d done his part getting her off the street, even as a prickling of guilt gnawed at his insides for taking advantage of her in her drunken state, even as he refused to take his own pleasure at her expense despite her begging. He hadn’t even intended to let things get  _ that _ far—not really. She was drunk out of her mind, but she’d kissed him with such  _ fire _ . It was almost enough to dull the lyrium ache. To drown out the song. 

Grumbling with self loathing, he kicked off his boots, pulled off his shirt, and got under the covers beside her. 

That damn song was going to be the end of him.

"Allison," she murmured, curling into his arms. "My name is Allison."


End file.
